The Hunt
by Adept of the Angels
Summary: ONESHOT. In the light of the setting sun, he chases her down with the intent of killing her. Fate decides otherwise - or is it skill that fights fate? Altair/OC


**EDIT:** I made a few minor changes, corrected some mistakes, and improved some dialogue. Didn't change it enough for it to be noticeable, though.

**EDIT2:** THANK YOU THANK YOU THANK YOU _so much_ to my awesome friends, **Stephina** and Nerina, for reviewing this story for me. It means the world to me, and I love you guys so much. You guys are the wind beneath my wings; without you, there would be no me, and I want the world to know how much you guys mean to me :D

Also, thank you for anyone who might have reviewed or read this story; just the fact that you gave my story a chance means more to me than I can say :o)

A/N: This is my first story in the Assassin's Creed archive. This was a little something that formed after playing Assassin's Creed one and two for two days straight, and the boredom that followed after finishing the first one. Because honestly? Altair is way better than Ezio, in my opinion.

The girl doesn't have a name, so she can be anyone you want her to be. It's written in a Third Person's POV and present tense combo—I've never tried something like this before, so I hope it came out okay. I certainly like it, if I may say so myself.

I hope Altair isn't OOC.

**Disclaimer: **I don't own Assassin's Creed. All rights go to Ubisoft.

* * *

He watches his target as she strolls carelessly though the streets of Damascus. She seems to be completely at ease, not suspicious or paranoid in the least. She doesn't glance around nervously as most of his targets do, feeling his eyes on them. She doesn't quicken her stride, or attempts to blend in with the shadows, or even tries to hide behind passing citizens. She just walks confidently, as though not aware at all of the oncoming danger.

Of course she knows, Altair thinks bitterly. He knows this woman, knows that her beautiful, small body is more deadly than any man worth his salt could imagine. Knows that her flawless face hides more than what meets the eye. Knows that her enchanting smile and seemingly innocent eyes hold more secrets than one human being should be able to bear.

She has probably already found out weeks before about her ultimate demise. Had probably known since the second the order had been uttered by his master.

Then why isn't she running?

Altair jumps from rooftop to rooftop, keeping to the shadows as much as possible. His sharp eyes never leave his target's retreating form, never lets her get out of his sight. As he watches, she tilts her head slightly to the side, as though something had attracted her attention, before promptly disappearing behind a wall in a nearby alley.

Vaguely confused but grateful that he doesn't need to cause a scene in a crowded place, Altair mimics her movement, jumping down from the rooftop and blending with the shadows. He moves to follow his target, preparing his hidden blade for the strike that would kill her. He doesn't need to make it painful. He had learned enough to let her die without being interrogated.

But when Altair leaps forward, blade pointed in the direction where is instincts tell him she should be, where his senses had supported his instincts by letting him know that she's _right there_, around the corner where piles of abandoned boxes flood most of the walking space—she's not there.

For a moment unbalanced, Altair retracts his hidden blade and easily regains his footing. He spins around, eyes searching for his missing target. He tries to remain calm, to keep from getting frustrated, but already the eerie glow of his Eagle Vision starts to appear, signifying that some form of silent panic had already started to settle in.

Behind him, in front of him, above him—all around him, a slow clapping sounded, coming from every direction. Provoking him. Taunting him.

"Well, well, well," an all too familiar voice says. Altair spins around, almost instantly detecting the direction she is in.

And there she is, in all her glory. She sits on an empty crate, almost reclining against the wall and looking completely relaxed. Her auburn hair is pulled back, only allowing a few several strands of her too-long fringe to frame her face. Her deep, catlike emerald eyes peer through long eyelashes at him, and a smirk twists at her lips. Altair feels his gut twisting at the sight of her, his mouth settling into a grimace as he recalls the reason for his mission. Betrayal shines in his eyes, and it doesn't go undetected by his target.

"Altair," she purrs. "It's been a long time, Brother. I must say, I'm quite surprised. I expected you to arrive sooner; I almost thought you wouldn't come at all."

Altair snarls, feeling his fists ball up in anger. His dark eyes glare at her emerald ones, the twist in his stomach tightening.

"You are no longer my Sister," he growls. "You have lost that title when you betrayed the Creed."

She tisks, a mock expression of disappointment on her heavenly and deceivingly innocent face. "Dear Altair, you should have all seen it coming. The Templars knew none of you can resist a beautiful woman, and that was all the break they needed. It's not our fault your 'Creed' consists of seemingly nothing but overgrown hormonal teenagers."

His hands shake in anger, but he keeps his expression devoid of any indication of the uncomfortable clench in his stomach. Devoid of any emotion that she could use against him, given the chance. Because he knows her, knows how she is and why she is—was, _was_—so good at what she did.

"You will pay for what you did. You will pay for learning our secrets and techniques and using them against us. You will _pay_ for betraying the Brotherhood." Altair reaches behind him for his dagger, quickly changing his mind about his earlier decision to make her death as quick and painless as he could.

She laughs, throwing her head back and clutching her stomach, as though it was physically painful, how funny he's being. Altair can't help but notice the curve of her naked, exposed neck as her head is now thrown back, can't help but see the childish dimples appearing in her cheeks. These observations only make his hands clench tighter around his now drawn blade.

When she sobers enough to flash those mischievously innocent eyes at him, Altair realizes that he should have made his move already, should have struck her when he'd had a chance, when she was still distracted. Not enough of a blow to kill her, but enough to wound her so that she couldn't escape.

But it's too late, and she is looking at him too fiercely with her emerald eyes for him to so much as move.

"So that's it, then, hmm?" she asks, fresh humour still in her voice. "They have sent you to kill me?"

"I volunteered!" Altair spits. He feels his control slipping, feels his emotions seeping out of him. Feels the hurt and betrayal turning into frantic, violent anger.

"Oh, you did, did you? So eager to see me again? Tell me, what are you going to tell your precious Brothers when you return to Masyaf without that blood-coated feather of yours, hmm?"

That does it. Before he can stop himself or process what he's doing, Altair flings himself at her, one hand grabbing her by the shoulder and the other pressed hard across her collarbone, the hilt of the dagger digging into her neck. His left hand presses into her skin, hard enough so that he knows that his shortened nails would leave four perfect crescent marks in her upper arm. Her back hits the wall, and he hears the breath whoosh out of her.

"I will not fail, even if it means going down with you," he snarls. Still, despite being slightly disoriented and a little surprised—if not a bit breathless—she is unfazed by his reaction. In fact, she seems satisfied by it.

"Oh, dear Altair," she coos, then chuckles. "I do wonder what your precious Master would say if he saw us in this position. Not that we had any trouble keeping it from him before, hmm? You always were good at sneaking around."

He knows what she's trying to do. He can see it even before he feels his heart suddenly thump faster in his chest, before he feels his skin tingling where he feels her breath on his face. Before one of her limply hanging hands start to inch up his body to slip into his hood. Before her fingers tangle in his short cropped hair under his hood.

Before he has a chance to falter in his resolve, Altair presses his arm hard into her neck, cutting off her air supply. Seemingly on reflex, she grabs at his arm, removing her fingers from his hair in favour of trying to claw her air supply back open.

"You wouldn't kill me," she croaks, sounding confident. But Altair can see the small tinge of fear in her emerald eyes. Can see the way her face pales and can feel the way her heart suddenly beat faster against his own.

And for a second, he doubts his ability to do the deed himself. He doubts the faith his master has in him to kill this woman—this woman, who had captured all of the members of the Brotherhood's hearts, had gained all of their trust. He doubts his master's decision to send him to do it—because it hadn't, in fact, been Altair to volunteer the elimination of one of his past fellow assassins. No one wished to slay her, but it had to be done.

Almost in an instant, Altair's resolve returns again.

"I will not defy the orders of my Master," he says evenly, swiftly removing his dagger from his right hand to clutch it in his left, still keeping his hold on her neck with his right arm. Slowly, he presses the tip of the blade into her skin, piercing the flesh enough to allow a tiny drop of blood to escape. "You have brought enough chaos upon our Creed."

Her eyes are no longer as confident and cocky as they had been moments earlier. Instead, they are widened in fear, emerald orbs begging for him not to do it. Her lips are turning blue, and she opens her mouth in an attempt to gather air into her lungs.

"I still love you, Altair," she tries to whisper, though no sound comes out. It doesn't matter, because he can read the words on her lips.

Without giving his body any conscious order to, he slackens his hold on her, taking barely a step away from her. His arms lower a little, allowing her to breathe. She grabs at the opportunity, gulping in huge lungfuls of air.

In the light of the setting sun, with this woman—this disastrous, destructive woman that brings chaos to all that crosses her path—Altair feels his will slipping as he does the unthinkable: He hesitates. For barely a few seconds, he lets his guard down.

And it is enough.

With strength no person should have after almost being choked to death, she grabs at Altair's wrists, pulling them down and away from her body, where they can no longer harm her. In his shock, she pushes herself up against him and presses her lips hard onto his, kissing him with a fierce ferocity that is so familiar and so heart-wrenchingly precious to Altair, he doesn't try to fight it. He doesn't try to fight her when he feels her tongue running over his lips, doesn't resist her request for an entry to explore his mouth. He doesn't let himself think.

Instead, he presses his body hard against her, once again making her back hit the wall behind her, but this time in an effort to bring her closer instead of trapping her. He kisses her with all of the anger and betrayal the past months had brought him, forcefully communicating without any words the pain he had been through.

The second her hands release his wrists to once again tangle in his hair, he drops his blade and encircles his arms around her, and that's when she strikes.

With a suddenness that leaves him breathless, she turns them around so that she is trapping him, simultaneously kicking the dagger away from them. She is panting, her eyes filled with a deep passion as she stares straight into Altair's dazed eyes. She holds his arms over his head, both wrists gathered in one hand. The other is at his side, reaching into the one of the hidden compartments to remove one throwing knife. She presses the tip of the sharp, deadly knife into the flesh of his neck, much as he had done earlier with her.

"We always were better this way than as mere Brother and Sister of the Creed," she says, still slightly breathless. "You and I, Altair—we can do great things together."

He stares at her, not fully recovered but determined not to let her see that. He keeps his expression cold, and clamps his mouth shut. She already knows his answer to her unspoken question.

She leans forward, pushing back his hood with the blade of her newly acquired knife to kiss the spot behind his ear. He tries not to shiver when she nibbles on his earlobe.

"If you change your mind," she whispers seductively, "you know how to find me."

She moves to retreat into the night—which had now fallen over Damascus—before stopping, saying, "Oh, and Altair? Don't follow me."

With that, she uses his throwing knife and plunges it hard into his thigh, eliciting a small cry of pain from Altair's lips.

She smirks.

"Goodbye, love."

And then she is gone, disappearing with the shadows, leaving Altair to limp back to the Assassin's Bureau and to curse his damned luck.

* * *

A/N: -whistles disbelievingly- Did I really write that? Something must have possessed me.

Well, anyway, if you liked it, please leave a review telling me so. If you didn't like it, you could still leave a review telling me so, as long as it could help me improve. Thoughts would be much appreciated :D


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